


This Is How We Don't Belong (Pat Benetar's Thunder Overdub)

by poisontaster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: kamikazeremix, F/F, Femslash, POV Second Person, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-07
Updated: 2010-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-12 12:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a ghost between them and ten years hasn't been long enough to exorcise it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is How We Don't Belong (Pat Benetar's Thunder Overdub)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [This is how we don't belong](https://archiveofourown.org/works/83419) by [amaresu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaresu/pseuds/amaresu). 



_It is a form of possession, this belonging to one another._ ~Geoffrey Beene

You feel Ellen coming from miles away.

The unintentional double meaning there makes you smile and that's good, that's better, because that's what you need, to smile your way through this. It's been ten years and neither one of you are the people—the children—you'd been. It should be possible to sit down and talk like people, like goddamn grown-ups.

 _Limbs tangle together, like vines, like roots, strong and malleable at the same time and all the air in the world is there, between your two gasping mouths, shared and communal, bounded by soft lips, as silken with wet as the ones between your fingers, slick, slippery slide up and in, feeling that deep, sweet pulse, heartbeat mingled with want, with clutch and cling, quiet, sucking beg for more, more, more and her, her, filling you up just as good, sweet rub, rocking to the rhythm, rocking it out, the two of you, together, like there's never been anyone else and there's never gonna be. It's always just this, just you._

You don't know whose thought it is, whose memory. All the walls you ever built were never any good against her; she has the key to them all. Handed over before you even had a grasp on what you were giving up, what you were opening to. Having too many doors open is kind of your stock in trade, like the birthmark on your hip or your momma's crooked pinkies.

That memory, though, takes the door and blows it off the hinges, leaving damp between your thighs like a high summer sweat and hardens your nips like cherry stones and suddenly it's all there in front of you again: a craving like some junkie crying for a fix, bone-deep sorrow that looks and feels better on your clientele than coming from those dark places inside you and, laced through it all, a rat-poison bitterness because it's been ten years— _ten years_ —and what right does Ellen have to bring all this shit back to your doorstep? What fucking right?

If the smile was good, the anger is better, a moral high horse you can climb up on and ride to town over whatever the hell it is Ellen's gonna dump in your lap.

Because it was Ellen that said _no_ and Ellen who said, _it's over_ and _you gotta go_ and now it's Ellen that's crawling back for some favor that you're going to give her, that you're going to _grant_ because you are on top of this. The gracious lady of the manor, fuck yeah.

You try to do things and fail at each of them, unable to hold onto anything but the inescapable truth that Ellen's coming. That pretty soon, she's going to be standing on your porch and you will smile and pretend as hard and as toothily as any of those good matrons of the church who came around when you were a kid, saying they just wanted to save your soul. Because you did enough begging when Ellen was shoving you out with the trash and you did enough boo-hooing about it afterward and even this many years later, the memory of it still burns, bright and keen.

 _(it's not embarrassment, it's not)_

No one else. Your bed wasn't empty before or after Ellen, you weren't fucking _pining_ , for Chrissakes, but no one before or after her has ever had that kind of power over you, the power to make you feel

 _like stars are coming out of your eyes when she licks you, dirty tongue with agile tip that can find every sweet spot and singing nerve; a million stars pouring out of you and every one of them is singing her name and you are too, in between crazy pleas: to go, to stop, for more, more, more and she's laughing—laughing—which feels_ amazing _, telling you_ shh, shh _which also feels amazing and you're laughing_

The memory unsticks, peels like a shred of sunburned skin. You feel her there, just on the other side of the door. So goddamn close.

You feel her wavering.

And though a vindictive bitch goddess part of you wants to let her go, let her crawl away, unfulfilled, you can feel her sadness, her fear, the desperation that brought her this far, last place on earth she wants to be.

It pisses you off that you still care that much, that her pain can tear you up but no amount of pissed can hide the truth and apparently no amount of bitch goddess can keep you from swinging the door wide and drawling out, "You've been out there for fifteen minutes, don't leave now."

She turns around and _goddamn_. Time has been kind to her. Hell, time has been worshipping at her feet and begging for the privilege of licking her muddy damn boots. Or maybe a taste of those tits.

Her face gets that strapping it on look and she walks right at you like she's going to barrel you down, except that you do what you always do and dance out of the way, shutting the door behind her.

You don't really know what happens next. You know what your plan was: to be cool and aloof but gracious; to usher her in and then get her the fuck out because clearly you aren't as over this as you kept telling yourself you were and you can _not_ lose your cool like this.

You know the plan, but instead of that, there's this: your mouth on her neck and the crazy beat of her heart 'tween your teeth and both her hands on you, one of them up your back, twanging at your bra and the other going for gold down the front of your pants and you sucking in your belly tight as you can to let her and you're both

 _you're both laughing, down deep from your belly, laughing_ too _loud, too loud to hear the door open, too loud to hear her come creeping in, sly as a sneaking fox, little blonde miss. You're the first to see her, when your head goes falling back and the shock of her here, where she's got no damn business being, runs through you like live current, down to the face squeezed so tight between your thighs. The two of you fly apart but who are you kidding? Girl's old enough to know what it means when two folks get naked in a bed and lock the door behind them. Just like you're old enough to know better._

The memory—much as you don't want it—catches you up, drags you down deep until Ellen's pushing you away _(again. pushing you away again.)_ , growling, "No. This ain't why I came here."

Like any of this was your idea.

"Fuck." You swipe the back of your hand across already bone-dry lips, think about spitting. "That wasn't supposed to happen." Between the memory and Ellen standing right in front of you is a ghost—the ghost of a little blonde girl too good at picking locks and no good at minding her own business. So that's what this is, then.

You feel sick, you feel like your knees are gonna buckle out from underneath you, so you back up to the wall, plant your hands and just breathe, telling yourself it's your imagination that you can smell her pussy. "I know," you say, thinking it'll be better if it comes from your mouth instead of hers. "I know why you're here."

Bump as Ellen backs into the opposite wall, but you don't go looking. Don't think you could stand to look at her right now, when this is what it's come to. The silence lies thick and deep as snowfall between the two of you and then, finally, she sticks a knife your way, hilt first, like a peace offering. You're not fooled. Can't be any peace for either of you, not after something like this.

You don't want to touch it, palms shrinking away from the metal, but you're not chickenshit and you told yourself you'd do this, so you're gonna. Different set of memories pouring in at knifepoint, all that anger and fear and frustrated love that you can relate to better than you'd think you could, better than you want to, because Ellen Harvelle's a damn hard woman to love and impossible not to, and you guess that's true no matter who you are.

"Motel in Eau Claire," you say, just wanting her gone now, just wanting it over. "Some kind of chain, Days Inn, Super 8, maybe. Room 125, but she's already fixing to go. You'd best hurry."

You don't mention seeing her crying, you don't mention the blood. That's Jo's story to tell and you're not part of it. Not part of either of their stories, not anymore.

"Thanks," Ellen says and that's when you toss your hair back and stare her down, because it's not like you would've taken her money and it's not like there's much left to be said but she came all this way just to stick the knife in, just about literally, and that thanks, that quiet, mealy-mouthed _thanks_ …

Shit, that just about takes the cake.

 _You gotta go, that's all. This was a mistake. Me and you…it was a mistake. I'm all alone and I got a kid and I can't just… Well. I can't. All right?_

You reach across the space between you and drag your hand down her arm til you reach her hand, flipping it palm up and slapping that knife right down. "You look after our girl," you say, and it comes out perfect, just as sugar-sweet as you'd like.

She blanches and she goes and neither one of those things feels as good as you like. And you stand there and listen, as the tiger growl of her engine fades to white noise. And you stand there and feel it, as she fades too, until there's no one in your skin but you, stretched and loose and flapping in the wind.

You don't cry. That seems important, somehow, when you go down like a marionette with your strings cut and you're choking and gasping for air that seems too thin, not enough. You're kicking your heels and your fists make drumbeats on the floor and you're screaming like a lost, banshee soul, but you don't cry.

Christ. You need to get drunk and then laid. Maybe both at the same time.

You won't cry.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Girlguidejones & Nilchance for beta reading services and to Girlguidejones to helping me make this happen for another year.


End file.
